THE HOUR THAT FOUND ME

I walked into a 24-hour laundromat at 6:00 a.m. on August 21, 2021. The air was already warm; the kind of Arizona morning that promised heat before the sun fully rose.

My clothes were half loaded, and my body was not okay. I was trying to hold it together—just long enough to get through this.

I pushed the last of the clothes into the washer and poured in my favorite soap—Persil. The scent rose up, clean and familiar, like a memory of a life I no longer recognized as mine.

The machines hummed around me. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Everything felt exposed.

“Oh no,” I said. “Please, Heavenly Father, let these cramps lighten.”

The pain hit fast and deep, folding me in half. I dropped to my knees, gripping the edge of the machine. For five minutes, I couldn’t move. My body shook as the cramps refused to let go.

When I finally tried to stand, I didn’t make it.

My body gave out completely. I had lost control of my bowels, and there was feces everywhere. There was no hiding what my body had done.

The smell filled the room. What little dignity I thought I had left disappeared in an instant.

I stood there, frozen, staring at what I had become.

For the first time, I said it out loud.

“I am an alcoholic. I am a meth addict. Heavenly Father, I need help. Let me get through this.”

I was on day two with nothing in my system. My body was purging everything I had tried to numb for years.

If I could just clean this up—clean myself up—maybe no one would see. Maybe just the machines. Maybe the cameras. Maybe this could still be the day I made it to rehab.

How did I get here?

I used to be someone who felt everything. I loved deeply. I showed up for the people I loved.

Then 2012 took my mother, my brother, my cousin, and my only son—all in one week.

After that, I didn’t know how to feel anything at all.

So I learned how not to.

There was no bathroom. There was no time to wait. Only time moving slower than I could bear.

I stared at the washer as it filled and turned.

“Please hurry,” I whispered.

Forty-five minutes felt like two full days. Every second stretched, heavy and unforgiving.

Then finally—a click.

“Thank you, Lord,” I said.

I used the clothes to clean up the mess. When I was done, I threw everything away except one sundress. I couldn’t walk out like this.

I changed right there in the laundromat.

The dress was still wet, cold against my skin, but it smelled like lavender—clean, soft, forgiving.

For a moment, I could breathe again.

I wanted to leave a note—an apology—but I had nothing to write with. No way to explain what had just happened inside me.

So I stepped outside.

The sun was rising, and the heat wrapped around me like something alive. The air felt different against my skin.

I didn’t feel clean. Not completely.

But I felt something else.

Something honest.

“Help me,” I whispered.

And for the first time, I meant it.

April Ashburn is a writer and creative storyteller from Arizona. She focuses on emotionally driven narratives that explore moments of struggle, surrender, and transformation. Her work is inspired by lived experience and a desire to find meaning through storytelling.